The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne (14 page)

BY GREAT EFFORT on his part, Chief Constable Sempill was able to return to St Pancras station that evening in plenty of time for the last post. He had with him a little packet containing a note for Detective Lieutenant Trench, advising him on recent developments in the inquiry and giving instructions for the enclosed photograph to be shown to such witnesses and informants as he thought useful and appropriate. This he dropped into the pillar box at the station with “POLICE BUSINESS MOST URGENT” written in the corner, trusting the Royal Mail to do its duty.

You may well imagine the interest with which we examined the contents of that little packet when it arrived in Broughty Ferry the following day. Sitting at the Chief Constable’s desk, Mr Trench slit the envelope and withdrew the sheets of folded notepaper in that same two-fingered pinching grip I recalled from our first meeting on top of the tram, and read from Mr Sempill’s letter with all the tenderness of a mother to her children.

“Mr Sempill says he has tracked down Clarence Wray, who admits his connection with Jean Milne but strongly denies any flirtation. According to Wray, our young man with the yellow moustache was sniffing around, trying to get her to invest in a Canadian mining interest.”

We were all most taken with these snippets, Broon and Suttie above all, and I had to recall them to their right behaviours.

“However, Mr Sempill reports that he has uncovered another most promising lead, a Canadian confidence trickster now imprisoned in Kent—”

“A foreigner,” said Suttie.

“Well, a colonial at any rate,” said Mr Trench, “and he declines to give an account of himself, although he has admitted to an interest in mining shares.”

“The very man! The man himself!” said Suttie with a kind of welcoming glee, as if he had suddenly stumbled upon Constable Broon in the bar of the Ship at just the very moment when he put his hand in his pocket.

Mr Trench waited until order and calm had restored itself. “Mr Sempill says he is enclosing a newly taken photograph of the suspect, which he urges us to exhibit to the witnesses in the hopes that they may assist the inquiry by providing an identification.”

But the photograph was still inside its envelope and the envelope still lay, where Mr Trench had placed it, in the middle of Mr Sempill’s desk. It was not for any of us to touch the envelope and we waited in silence until Mr Trench picked it up and removed the picture.

He examined it for a moment, blew through his teeth and tossed it on the table. “Mr Charles Warner of Toronto. There’s our suspect, lads.”

“That’s him to the life, right enough,” said Suttie, who was daily sinking in my estimation.

But, though Suttie had never seen the killer in all his days, there was no denying that picture was the living image of a murderer. He was in his grey prison uniform: a rough woollen jacket, a shirt without a collar. They had pushed him into a corner, with a mirror angled behind his head so both sides of his face were on view. His hands were crossed in front of his chest, like a coffined corpse, to record any distinguishing marks. There were none.

Mr Trench said: “No moustache, you’ll notice. I want to see all the witnesses who claim to have seen the man, anybody who saw him near the house or on the cars or with Miss Milne. Pay them a visit and have them call in to see us. We need to let them have a look at this photograph. Come along, gentlemen, no time for slacking, I want to send my report to Mr Sempill by tonight, so let’s get knocking.”

So we went out and found them all, everybody who said they saw the young man with the thin blond moustache: John Wood the gardener, who said he let the man into Elmgrove; James Don the rubbish man, who saw him come out and stand under the street lamp; Margaret Campbell, maidservant to Mrs Luke at Caenlochan Villa, who looked out the window and across the street and saw a man strolling between the bushes; the McIntosh lassies, who ran away from him, frightened out of their wits; Andy Hay the pedlar, who growled at him as he sat smoking on his pack. We found them all – and others I have not troubled you with, like the young boys who fled from him when he disturbed them at play – and we brought them all to the police office and we showed them all a photograph of a middle-aged man without a moustache to see what they might say.

We had not the slightest difficulty in finding the witnesses. If we found any one of them at home, that person would put on their hat and coat and come running out of the house to help, and those who were not at home turned up immediately they found our cards at the back of the door. Not one of them had to be asked twice. In a little place, the force of gossip and scandal does as much to prevent wrongdoing as a hundred policemen, and the chance to be at the centre of approving public remark, to come face to face with a brutal murderer and have that witnessed and borne out by the police, the opportunity to be the heroes of their own little stories, made these good folk eager to assist.

To be fair to Detective Lieutenant Trench – and I take my hat off to him for this – he did his utmost to make it all as fair as possible by selecting pictures from our own files and hiding Warner’s picture amongst them. He was trying his best, but Broughty Ferry is not a large burgh and our local stock of wrongdoers is small. Some of them might well have been known to the witnesses by sight – after all, James Don boasted to me that there wasn’t a man in the burgh that he did not know – and the cards Mr Trench had found were all alike and each of them unlike the new photograph sent up from England.

In spite of it all, Mr Trench tried to do his duty. One by one, each of the witnesses was taken into the Chief Constable’s office and gently lectured on the importance of the evidence they were about to give.

He impressed upon them that he, himself, did not know any of the men whose photographs he was about to show them and they must not think for a moment of trying to please him by selecting one picture over another. They must remember the dreadful responsibility that might attend upon their choice, he said, and consider before speaking that a man’s life hung in the balance on the strength of their word. If they were unsure, it would be far, far better for justice and the sake of their conscience simply to say that they recognised none of the photographs, and nobody would think the less of them.

Then Mr Trench would take all his photographs out of the envelope, lay them on the table and invite the witness to make a choice. After they had finished he would thank them kindly for their efforts, bind them to silence in regard to their choice, send them out to make their statements in front of me or Suttie or Broon, shuffle his cards and begin again.

We typed furiously and to great purpose, but when evening came and the work was done, Mr Trench seemed strangely unsatisfied and he sat down in the hard chair beside Suttie at the police telegraph with a great, heavy sigh.

“Make to Chief Constable Sempill, Broughty Ferry Burgh Police, care of Scotland Yard, Whitehall, London. Message begins: Witnesses Wood, Don, girl Campbell, two girls McIntosh all say photograph strongly resembles man seen by them, but cannot say definitely. Wood, Don and Campbell think he is the man, but would like to see him before being positive. Malcolm and Urquhart say he is like the man seen by them in car. Boys Duncan, Bannerman and Potter say he resembles man in general appearance. Witness Hay says he is very like man met leaving Elmgrove on 15th October.”

All those people and none of them certain. Mr Trench understood that more would have to be done to make them certain. Poor Mr Trench.

IT WAS NOT very long after receiving that telegram that Mr Sempill announced his intention of returning home to Broughty Ferry for the purposes of holding a discussion with Detective Lieutenant Trench in regard to the course of the investigation as a whole and the business of the identification in particular.

And it was the day after he informed us of his decision that he was back in his familiar place in the station, happy to be shaking the dust and soot and stink of the city out of his clothes in the sharp clean winds of Broughty Ferry once again.

Not that I judge he was entirely happy to be away from London, but, on the other hand, I think his conscience pricked him a little that he had – even in the course of duty – been able to enjoy a visit to the great Imperial capital, which had been denied to the rest of us.

Perhaps to ensure that we did not feel left out, he was careful and generous enough to return with small, souvenir knick-knacks for each of us, little bits of china showing the famous Tower Bridge (which, as you may know, opens in the centre and rises and falls to admit the passage of shipping) and suchlike articles. He also had a whole series of picture postcards, hinged together like an accordion, which he exhibited to our general interest and delight and showed scenes such as “Buckingham Palace, where the King lives,” and “The Houses of Parliament with Big Ben, although, as I learned, that is a fallacy and Big Ben is neither the name of the famous clock, nor the enormous tower which houses it, but only of the great bell inside, which is, of course, invisible,” and, naturally enough, “Scotland Yard itself, the headquarters of the largest and greatest police force in the Empire and, you may as well say, the world. If you could see just round the corner of that tower, you would be able to see the window of the very office where I had a share of a desk during my stay.”

But, very soon, the time came to return to business. Mr Sempill was quick to praise us for all our labours, the many interviews we had carried out in his absence, the witness statements that had been gathered. “You’ve done sterling work, men, employing the most modern and methodical techniques of policing. I may tell you that, having been in the very beating heart of Scotland Yard, they have very little – if anything at all – to teach the men of Broughty Ferry Burgh Police.”

We were all gratified to hear these remarks.

“However,” said Mr Sempill, “it now seems clear that further avenues of inquiry have opened up furth of the burgh. These are pressing matters which I must discuss with Mr Trench and so . . .” And so we all left.

Naturally, since I was not present, and Mr Sempill never discussed the interview with me, I have had to rely on what Mr Trench reported, but, by his account, it was a tense and, some might say, an unfriendly affair.

“Thank you for seeing those witnesses,” said Mr Sempill.

“Delighted to be of assistance,” said Mr Trench. “We’re all of us doing what we can.”

“The thing is, Trench, I’d like to have a another chat with them.”

“Of course, if you wish. I’m sure they would be willing. They’ve all been keen to help.”

“Yes. See if we can’t get some of them to firm up their notions a bit, solidify their opinions. Yes. That’s the ticket.”

“I don’t think I understand,” said Mr Trench.

“Come along, I think you understand fine and well. These witness statements you’ve taken – they’re a bit wishy-washy. Look at this.” He took out Mr Trench’s telegram and began to read from it. “Wood, Don, girl Campbell, two girls McIntosh all say photograph strongly resembles man seen by them, but cannot say definitely. Cannot say definitely? What bloody good is that? Malcolm and Urquhart say he is like the man seen by them in car. Not that he
is
the man they saw, only
like
the man they saw. Boys Duncan, Bannerman and Potter say he
resembles
the man in
general appearance
. In general appearance? In general appearance? And Hay – Andy Hay the packman says he is
very like
the man he met leaving Elmgrove. Well, I can tell you this, Trench, whoever met Andy Hay coming out of Elmgrove would have been careful to stand down wind of him and probably a good way off at that.”

“Do you think these good folk are lying?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then what? What are you accusing them of? Wee boys who were playing in the dark and got a fright when they saw a strange man, two young lassies who fled from a man thinking he was about to chase them, a maidservant who peered out through the branches of a tree into the garden across the road, exhausted workmen on a tramcar, one of them just out of his bed, one of them struggling home at the end of the day. The only one who got anything like a look at the man is the gardener, but none of them were taking notes. None of them had a camera.”

“You make my point for me.”

“And what is your point, sir?”

“My point is, Trench, that if you are able, so easily, to demolish the evidence of identification offered by these witnesses, how much more easily would an able advocate shoot it to pieces when it came to court? I’m on your side. Aren’t we both on the same side? But the fact of the matter is, I’d be astonished if the Fiscal was even willing to issue an indictment based on evidence of this nature.”

“I see, sir. So what do you have in mind?”

“I only hope – you may be present if you wish or I’m happy to do it alone – I only hope to re-interview the witnesses and perhaps to press them a little more firmly, just to see if their recollections might not be rather more . . .” He paused to think of the right word. “Rather more concentrated. I have arranged for a further photograph of Warner to be taken.”

“To what purpose, may I ask?”

“I’d like to have it shown to the witnesses.”

“But they have already seen his photograph.”

“This is a different photograph.”

“Does this one have horns? Will it show his bloodstained hands?”

“Trench! Mind your tone. Are you accusing me of trying to influence witnesses?”

Mr Trench said nothing. He told me that later that evening, as he looked deep into a pint pot in the Ship, “I said nothing. I should have said something, but I said nothing. It’s poor Oscar Slater all over again.”

I WOULD ASK you to consider what a figure Chief Constable Sempill was in our small burgh.

This was a man of position, a man of standing, a figure of influence in Broughty Ferry. If he went about in his street clothes, sharp eyes shining out from under his hat, whiskers that proclaimed his manly bearing, straight of back, heavy of tread, mighty of fist, he would command respect. In uniform, he was a very terror.

There was nobody in the burgh, from the Dighty Burn in the east to the Stannergate in the west, from Claypotts Castle in the north to the silvery Tay in the south, nobody who did not well know Chief Constable J. Howard Sempill, nobody who did not aspire to his acquaintance or dread coming to his professional notice.

Imagine, then, how Margaret Campbell must have felt to be told that she might, at any moment, expect a visit from no less a figure than Chief Constable J. Howard Sempill on a matter of grave importance. Imagine wee Maggie answering the door for Mrs Luke at Caenlochan Villas, as she must have done times without number before, and finding Mr Sempill standing on the step. Imagine how warmly he greeted her and how he chuckled when she bobbed a curtsey and said she would get her mistress.

“But it’s you I’ve come to come to see, Miss Campbell.”

Can you conceive of it? The Chief Constable of Broughty Ferry addressing a maidservant in those terms?

“You’ve come to see me? But I’m not allowed callers at this hour. I have one Sunday a month off and I’d be most happy to receive you then.”

“But this is police business, Miss Campbell. If you ask your mistress, I’m sure she won’t mind – if she is at home, of course.”

“I will find out, sir.”

Now, of course, Miss Maggie Campbell very well knew that her mistress was at home since she had taken her tea in the sitting room not half an hour earlier. And Chief Constable Sempill also knew that it was highly likely that Mrs Luke would have been at home at that hour. When Maggie told a caller that she would “find out” as to whether her mistress was “at home” that meant only that she would ascertain whether her mistress wished to receive a call.

And, of course, Mrs Luke very much did wish to receive a call from the Chief Constable of Broughty Ferry, not only because he was the Chief Constable, but also because it put her within touching distance of the distressing events at Elmgrove. Oh, it was one thing to live just across the street from “the house of mystery” with a maidservant who may, perhaps, quite possibly, probably did see the killer himself, brazenly taking the air, smoking a cigar in the very act of planning his ghastly deed, but quite another to entertain the man heading the inquiry beneath her own roof. Mrs Luke knew that a visit from the Chief Constable – though it lasted but a moment – would provide hours of breathless conversation at her Thursday bridge night.

“Send him in, Maggie,” she said.

“You’re to please come in,” said Maggie.

“Thank you, Miss Campbell,” said the Chief Constable.

And Maggie, standing at the door of the sitting room, announced: “Chief Constable Sempill, Ma’am.”

“Chief Constable,” said Mrs Luke.

“Mrs Luke,” said Chief Constable Sempill. Oh, it was all very warm and polite.

“Thank you, Maggie,” said Mrs Luke.

Maggie, knowing her place, said nothing at all and withdrew.

It was only when she was gone that Mr Sempill, observing all the proprieties, enquiring after Mrs Luke’s health, remarking on the unseasonable mildness of the weather, hoping that it might hold and that perhaps a few of Mrs Luke’s charming roses would be allowed to linger on a week or two longer, it was only then that he introduced the awkward and difficult reason for his visit.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you might permit a few moments of conversation with your maid? For the purposes of the inquiry, you understand.”

“Oh, the inquiry, Mr Sempill. Well, if it’s a matter of the inquiry.” Mrs Luke cranked the handle of the bell pull by the fire and some way off, across the hall, behind a heavy door and down a corridor, a brass bell, placed high on the kitchen wall, jangled on the end of a wire.

There was a moment or two of awkward waiting: “It really is very mild.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“For the time of year, I mean.”

“Yes, for the time of year.”

Before Maggie knocked gently on the door.

“Come in.”

And came in.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Maggie, Chief Constable Sempill would like a word with you about the murder.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Maggie turned to face Mr Sempill. She held her hands clasped in front of her, in the middle of her white apron.

“Miss Campbell, would you come and sit here beside me – you don’t mind, Mrs Luke?”

Maggie? The maid? Sitting here? On these chairs? On her chairs? “No, of course, I don’t mind, Mr Sempill. Come away in, Maggie. Come away in.”

Maggie came in and sat on Mrs Luke’s sofa beside Mr Sempill, not quite beside him and not quite on Mrs Luke’s sofa, just perched on the very edge of Mrs Luke’s sofa, just barely enough of it under her backside to stop from sliding onto the floor. She looked at Mrs Luke and gave a thin smile. Mrs Luke snapped a biscuit.

“Now, Miss Campbell, I think it’s the case that you have looked at this photograph.” He took the picture of Warner out of his wallet and showed it to her.

“Yes, Mr Sempill. Your Lieutenant Trench showed it to me.”

“That’s right. Just the other day.”

“Might I?” said Mrs Luke.

“Well . . .” Mr Sempill hesitated, but only for a second. “So long as it’s in the strictest confidence, Mrs Luke.” He showed her the picture and her hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“Oh, the villain! Oh, the brute! Oh, Maggie, you poor wee soul, is this the man you saw from the window?” She was thoroughly delighted.

Mr Sempill waited for a moment. “Well, Miss Campbell, is this the man you saw from the window? The man you saw in evening dress in the middle of the day, boldly walking about in Miss Milne’s garden and smoking on a cigar?”

Maggie said nothing and chewed on her lip. She had an awful terror that she was about to slide off the sofa and land on the hearth rug.

“Miss Campbell, I think it’s the case that you told Trench the photograph ‘strongly resembles’ the man you saw but you cannot say for sure.”

“That’s right, sir. That’s what I said.”

“Well, you see, Miss Campbell, the law demands a higher standard of proof than that. The law demands that a jury must be convinced ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ and, you must understand, the fact that you cannot say for sure means that the man will get off. “

Mrs Luke was outraged: “Oh Maggie, surely you can’t let the man who killed poor Miss Milne get off? You must be sure.”

“But I’m not sure, Ma’am.”

“And that’s exactly why I wanted to have this talk with you, Miss Campbell. You see, I was wondering if – just take another look at the photograph again, if you would – I was wondering if you might be a little more certain, if there is anything I could do to help you reach a rather firmer conclusion.”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s awful important.”

“Yes, Maggie, it’s terribly important.”

“You see, Miss Campbell, I was wondering if you were, perhaps, to see the man in person, if you might not feel more confident in your identification.”

“Well . . .”

“It’s a dreadful imposition, I know. It would mean travelling to London – yes, all the way to London – at the expense of the Broughty Ferry Burgh Police, of course, and it would mean having to stay in a hotel in London. It would take you away from your work for two or three days.”

“Two or three days?”

“Well, if Mrs Luke could spare you. Do you think you could spare Miss Campbell for two or three days, Mrs Luke?”

Mrs Luke thought she could, although the place would be in a dreadful state by the time Maggie got back, but, on the other hand, there was Thursday bridge to consider.

“So there you are, Miss Campbell. Mrs Luke thinks she could spare you and it would be perfectly safe. You would be accompanied at all times, I’d ensure that, and you would have a room of your own in the hotel, with all your meals found. Of course you would have to confront the man directly, in an identification parade, but I can promise you it would be perfectly safe. Officers would be constantly on hand to ensure your safety. He wouldn’t dare say ‘Boo’ to you and it would only take a moment. There would be plenty of time for taking in the sights of our great Imperial capital, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, maybe even visit to a music hall.”

“That sounds nice, doesn’t it, Maggie?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“But, you see, Miss Campbell, there would be very little point in taking you to London and very little point in burdening the ratepayers of Broughty Ferry with the costs of your journey, the railway tickets, your hotel bills, all your keep, unless,” Mr Sempill tapped the photograph with his finger, “unless you feel, in your heart of hearts, that seeing this man, face to face, might somehow clear your recollection.”

Maggie sat for a moment, balanced on the very edge of Mrs Luke’s sofa, looking hard at Warner’s picture, his face reflected in the angled mirrors, his hands, those terrible hands, and tried to imagine him in evening dress, walking amongst the shrubbery, a cigar between his lips.

“It could be the man,” she said.

“Are you sure, Maggie? Bear always in mind the ninth commandment.”

“Nearly sure, Ma’am. I think, if I saw him face to face, I could be certain sure.”

“Of course you could, Miss Campbell. Of course you could. I will make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Thank you, sir.” And then, remembering her place and the two or three days she would be away, she said: “Ma’am.”

“That’s all settled then, ladies,” said the Chief Constable. “Thank you so much.” He made his polite farewells and went to leave, and a moment later Maggie was closing the door behind him. But she did not return to her place in the kitchen, for the bell from the sitting room was ringing again.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“More coal on the fire, Maggie. I think it’s growing a little chilly.”